


Wolf on a Trail

by Darkhorse



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Community: makinghugospin, Fix-It, Gen, kinkmeme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 16:03:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkhorse/pseuds/Darkhorse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for the Kinkmeme prompt;<br/>We all know that it takes a lot to even begin to ruffle Javert's feathers. Punch him, he'll just criticize your form and then arrest you. Toss him out a window, he'll dust himself off and then arrest you. Try to dash his brains out with a slab of concrete, he'll call you a she-man and then arrest you. He only has one real berserk button, child abuse.</p><p>I humbly implore you great anons for a story where, through some coincidence or another, Javert visits the Thenardiers inn. He witnesses the awful treatment of little Cosette and is absolutely enraged by it. He single handily beats down any one who opposes him then he takes Cosette himself</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First scent

Javert realised later that God must have had a hand on him, why else would he have changed his route to walk behind the back door of Madeleine’s factory at that particular moment.  
There was shouting, then the mayor's voice regaining order. Unrest was unusual for this town's workers and he rested his ears on the keyhole, listening as one of the workers carried on, blaming another for the fight. He only caught snatches  
“A kid that she's hiding... she has to pay...bet she's earning her keep sleeping around, the boss wouldn't like it.”  
The girl didn't try to deny it, which was all to her credit. Yes she had clearly fallen beyond redemption in her behaviour before, but she wasn't a liar And at least she'd left her child with people who would care for her. Yet the other workers kept jeering at her, accusing her and he noticed, making insinuations about her and the foreman. Something to mention to the mayor. Then a shout from the foreman, finality in his tone  
“Right my girl, ON YER WAY”  
Again, no protest from the girl that he could hear. Quickly, yet without seeming to be in a hurry, he made his way to the front door, where the workers poured out like waters from a punctured dam. Right at the front was the girl who had been dismissed. She walked faster than all the others, head bowed, trying not to stand out. But she did, and there was nothing to be done about it. He ignored her after a moment, switching his attention to the crowd of workers behind her, checking each one.

In the thick of a pack he spotted the one who had what he wanted and stepped away from the corner. Almost immediately all eyes were on him, most filled with some form of emotion between nerves and fear, only relaxing as he brushed through the crowd. He held out his hand, politely, and with his baton still under his other arm, practically as non-threatening as he could manage to make himself.  
“The letter please, Madame”  
“If you're going to arrest me for stealing, take her first for her behaviour” The dark-haired woman, who, he noticed with a sigh ,was showing rather more of herself than the dismissed, jerked her head in the other girl's direction.  
Javert didn't even allow his eyes to move for a second, still holding out his hand “The letter please.”  
She shoved it into his hand, crushing the paper, and he stepped back one stride. That seemed to be permission for her to move, and all the workers hurried away, when moments before they'd been gossiping amongst themselves.

He paced his way back, not to the station, but to a quiet spot on the edge of town. It was not raining, so he perched on the bench the mayor had set there so travelers might rest their feet after a journey and carefully, so carefully, he unfolded the piece of paper. It was self-written, and poorly at that, but he could decipher the meaning. The child was ill and the innkeeper required a sum of money, to whit, 15 francs. Javert physically felt his eyebrows rise at that. It was a huge sum. He considered, medicines themselves had become expensive, he did wonder what he himself would do if he fell sick in the coming winter, but it was still a large amount of money. Some sense, perhaps police trained, or perhaps from else-where in his life, suggested there was more to this than met the eye.

He stood up, straightening his hat on his head, folded the letter in to quarters before pocketing it and headed back into the town.


	2. Investingation

It went against his grain to have to ask for information of others besides his junior officers, he preferred to gather evidence and information with his own eyes and ears rather than trust a second party but on this occasion Javert realised he would have to change his normal habits, for while he could undoubtedly have identified what he needed within a few days, gossips being as they were, he decided that speed was important in this particular case. That being so, he collared the first oldish boy he saw, snatching him by the scruff in a sharp movement born of habit. The boy, well dressed and well-fed, struggled briefly and valiantly until he laid eyes on his captor, immeditaly switching from a scrapper to limp  
“Inspector, I haven't done anything” He began to babble and Javert gave him a sharp shake  
“Shut up”  
The boy fell silent  
Javert fixed him with a steady gaze“Now, do you know where a girl called Fantine lives? One of the factory workers, long gold hair?”  
The boy nodded eagerly “I know her, she lodges with M. Chastain”  
Javert held him a moment longer, but there was no sign that the boy was lying and he released him, twitching his wrist so the boy was spun away from him “Take me there.”  
The boy nodded again and set off at a quick trot.

If his guide had hoped to lose him in the streets or a crowd, Javert made sure he was out of luck. Perhaps some of the other officers would have slipped at the breakneck pace they boy set, but he had the advantage of stamina, and a very long stride. Therefore it was the boy who was panting and wobble-legged when they reached the house, rather than him. The house itself was much the same as any other in the town, two storied, with an attic probably also divided into many rooms. He stepped forwards and knocked on the door. After a moment, and tellingly, without even a shout to tell him to wait a moment, the door opened. The man who stood in the entrance was, on first glance, no better or worse than any other in the town, another of the indistinguishable mass who made up the populace.  
“M. Chastain?”  
The man nodded, and out of the corner of his eye Javert saw his guide sprint off back they way he'd come  
“Is something the matter Inspector?” It was spoken respectfully enough, but the man had a harsh stance to his body  
“Perhaps we might discuss this inside, it is not a matter for the street.”  
Chastain looked like he was going to refuse, but as Javert shifted his weight forward he stepped back into the hall “Of course Inspector, enter please.”

He did so. He could have known this was a lodging house without being told, the hall was so bare and impersonal, whitewashed for practicality only. Even the mayor, who lived spartanly, had some form of decoration, as did all the other houses. Come to think of it, the fact it even had a hallway indicated it was tenanted out room by room.  
He wheeled to face the land-lord, positioning himself at the bottom of the rickety stairs as if by accident. More pointedly, he did not bother to remove his hat  
“You have under your roof a ouyng woman named Fantine, yes? She is employed at the factory?”  
Chastain nodded “She lives here, yes.”  
A curiously impersonal way to answer, Javert noted absent-mindedly  
“Has she been causing trouble, Inspector? I want no lawlessness under my roof.”  
The cold flash in the land-lords eyes made Javert instantly aware of exactly what he planned to do and he realised that Chastain had the height and build to be intimidating if he wanted to  
“I wish to see her lodgings”  
Of course” Immediately the land-lord sprang for the stairs. Javert blocked him with a cool arm movement and he felt an absurd amusement when the man leapt backwards to avoid colliding. He did not of course, let that show in his voice, which was it's customary coolness  
“Directions will be sufficient, Monsieur, and the key.”  
“First floor, on the left”  
He nodded once in thanks as Chastain handed him one of several keys from a ring, mounting the stairs.

The room was bare bones, much like his own. A bed, two chairs, a table. Bare floor-boards creaked under his feet as he walked forward. His eyes were already darting from side to side, searching for what he needed to find, so it was only on afterthought he shut the door behind himself. Nothing was obvious, but then did he really expect it to be? Silently he patted the coverlet on the bed, feeling for lumps. Working his way up from foot to head it remained the same, just thin blankets and a matress. Javert sighed, for once, just for once when he had no ability to dig deeply, couldn't the search be easy. Jaw set in anger he swung towards the wall, intending to turn around and make a grand exit to save face if naught else. Something, a tiny corner of something, poked up the gap between the matress and the bed-stead, where the girl's head would lay that night. He reached over and pulled it out.  
A letter, as he'd hoped, and even better, there was a dry rustle as it moved. He knelt down, lifting the edge of the mattress with one hand and using the other to fish out his prize. There were fifteen or so. He plucked the original letter from his pocket and checked it, yes they were all addressed in the same hand. Carefully, in the style of a man who knew he had the right, he picked up each letter and put them safely in his pockets. Then, from an inside pocket, he retrieved a notebook. Borrowing a piece of charcoal from the fireplace for a writing implement, he carefully wrote on a page then tore it out. He frowned at it, reading it over

_Mademoiselle, report your dismissal to the mayor, it was unjust._

_A friend_

After a moment he added a postscript.  
 _Do not fear for your letters, they will not fall into bad hands._

He placed the note where the first letter had been found, reordered everything so it lay as it had when he'd entered, dropped the charcoal back into the grate and dusted off his fingers on his coat, then silently let himself out and re-locked the door behind him.


	3. Smell of a Rat

This time he did go to the police station, to his office. Most of the men were out on shifts and the handful that were left were either on cell duty or knew not to interupt him. Once the door was locked he sat at his desk and emptied his pockets of the letters, spreading them over the surface.  
It took a while to get them into chronological order, not least because of spelling difficulties, which was enough to have him angry before he'd even started. But it was the law of policework, get the facts in order. Then, and only then, did he begin to read.

They were all much of the same, a reminder to pay a sum of money for the child's keep. That much was in order. But gradually the sum crept up and up, from five francs to ten, then twelve, then the fifteen which he had first read. Oh the letters offered perfectly reasonable excuses, the girl growing, falling sick, needing new clothes. Yet it didn't ring true, the money demanded stayed the same amount as was needed for medicine even when there was no mention of illness remaining. And no child, no matter how doctored or hardy, could survive the number of illnesses that were claimed to have occurred. Colds, chills, summer fevers. He'd known children die of just one, even when given all the medicine that could be bought.

Javert leant back in his chair. For a long moment he could have been mistaken for a statue save for his sharp eyes fixed on the letters. There was a rat in this, it stank. Abruptly he picked up one letter, the newest, peering closely at the address then, almost casually, he pushed the letters to one side, snatching up a piece of paper and his pen from the inkwell. A moment later he was done and, returning the letters to his coat pockets, made his way to the front desk.

The clerk snapped to attention as Javert's shadow fell on him  
“See this is delivered to the Mayor, with all urgency”  
“O-of course Sir” the poor man stammered, but Javert had no time for his hope of an explanation, he had already crossed the threshold and was outside again.

His quick steps took him to the stable-yard at the back, where both police-issue and officer's personal horses were kept. The stable lads were more alert than the clerk, running up to meet him almost before he'd walked through the carriage arch. He spared them no more time though than he had the other.  
“Have Satan saddled, then bring him to my lodgings, you have five minutes.”  
As quickly as he wheeled about and left he did not miss the pale look on both faces. Satan, his horse, did not have that name for no reason.

Although he had a feeling the horse would be late he hastened to his lodgings. Five minutes was not long, not to pack for a journey. But he'd learnt to live on short notice, and as such he already had saddlebags with clean clothes and other requirements waiting under his bed. When he reached his room he took a moment to check the bags for wear and also to asses their contents, several shirts, both smart and old, breeches and trousers, boot black and blanket. All as it should be.  
He took off his hat, placing it on the bed, and shed his overcoat onto a hook at the back of the door.

Despite the lack of hat and coat, the porteress still jumped when she saw him standing there in her doorway. Javert repressed a sigh, the woman knew him well enough now surely, to know she had nothing to fear? And he had made the best effort he could to appear un-threatening, un-dominating for indeed it was she who ruled this house. Yet now she bobbed him a maid's curtsey  
“Inspector, did you want something?”  
He stepped into the full light of the windows, annoyed at himself for still skulking in shadows “Yes, travel food that will keep and not jolt to crumbs in a saddlebag.”  
The old woman favoured him with a smile that semed almost motherly for a split second and turned to her cupboards. “you'll wear yourself thin Inspector, you take double or treble shift work for weeks on end, then you must drop all to dash to paris at a word” She tsked and tutted “Remind those old officers that even the most diligent must have rest.”  
Javert barely managed to mask his face back to normality as she turned around with her cloth-wrapped packages in her hands  
“You've been talking to the mayor” he made his face as severe as he dared, but she held his gaze “he is always at my back.”  
“Say rather he's been talking to me, as he talks to everyone Inspector.”  
Javert glared at her and she passed him the parcels without seeming affected. He snatched them somewhat, modifying it from rudeness to abruptness with a curt nod of his head “I would be grateful, Madame, if people bothered with their own business first, others second and mine last.”  
“Of course you would... Bon Voyage Inspector”

Back in his room he tucked the food in the middle of the contents of the packs, then retrieved his pay from its normal hiding place and slipped it into an inside pocket of his shirt. He was proud of that bit of sewing. None but the absolute most professional pickpockets ever looked anywhere but the pockets, and even then, he thought with the tiniest bit of smugness, they never got close to the shirt neck.  
A snorting and clattering of hooves outside, announced with familiar aplomb that his horse had arrived. With the saddlebags slung by their middle-strap over his shoulder he walked down the slightly rickety stairs, through the porter's room and back out through the door he had only opened a short while before.

Outside Satan pranced on the street, tossing his head and fighting the combined efforts of both stable-boys to hold him still. Javert watched apparently dispassionately for a moment before walking forwards. As he took the reins, already over the stallions head, one of the boys relieved him of the saddlebags and set about strapping them on while the other backed off slightly, looking relieved. The stallion settled his dancing feet after a moment, though he still tossed his head, making his mane dance as he appeared to ignore his master's hand. Javert waited until the head stilled and the eyes settled, reaching up the rub the sleek black neck. The Arab had been a gift from his patron M. Chabouillet on receiving his inspectorship and he was the jewel of the stables. He was under no illusions regard however, the gift tied him more tightly to his patron, for Javert knew he would never be able to repay the amount that Chabouillet had spent to purchase the stallion. For all it was his name as owner in the ledger book under owner, the horse belonged to the Comte. But, just this once, he thought, as the firm muscle rippled on the crest of the satin neck, he didn't mind at all.  
Satan's snort broke his musings and on instinct he snapped to attention, aware that he was still within duty hours, still identifiable, and should always remain alert,and stern. However the stable boys, who stood at a distance, did not seemed to have noticed his momentary lapse.

Smoothly, as if he had all the time in the world, he moved down the the stallions shoulder, put his foot into the stirrup and swung up into the saddle. Satan danced about, shoes sparking the cobbles, before he had even got his right foot in the stirrup and he saw the stable boys torn between coming to help in case he was unseated and staying as far away from the stallion as they could.

He gave them no chance to help, sitting perfectly firm, using his legs to actually lead the stallion into more elaborate prancing. Then, with all control, he made Satan wheel in a tight circle, on the pretense of getting him back to the bridle, and set him off at a smart trot down the road. When they go back to the stables, they would undoubtedly be dispensing the rumor that he wasn't as drab as he seemed, could actually be a show-off. What they had failed to notice was the distinct demarcation between showing off for your own sake and wastrelness, and putting on a display of horsemanship to make an impression of power and authority, his was the latter, of course.


	4. Closing in

Montfermeil was, in a word, shabby. He'd vaguely expected a town, for some reason. Yet now all he was faced with a village buried in a wood, connected to nowhere in particular and yet so close to the metropolis of glory that was Paris. There was nothing to recommend this place what-soever to his mind, save that its outwards state suggested he might have indeed found the haunt of such creatures who would coerce every sou from a young woman's pocket on all manner of possible pretexts.

Just off the edge he dismounted, and plucking a kerchief from his pocket, tied it to one of Satan's fore-hooves. The horse was as sound as a whistle, but to untrained eyes, aided with some clever leading from himself, he would make it seem as if the stallion limped. It would draw attention, yes, but not so much as if he rode in at his full height, and more importantly, of a different type. He would be looked at as a means to make a profit, not something to fear. Strange times when it was not police skill but tricks of his youth came in useful.  
Sure enough, while eyes followed them along the main, well, if he was being truly correct, the only street of the place, most fell away after a time, while those that stayed had the feeling of those greedy for hard coin, as he'd suspected.  
He flicked his eyes about with the harassed arrogance of a noble delayed, spying a boy peering around one of the buildings  
“Hey, you there”  
He watched the boy's eyes dart about, then he came forward on quick feet  
“Where can I get a meal for myself and a stall for this daft animal.” He mentally apologised to Satan even as he spoke, praying that the stallion wouldn't have one of his intelligent moments and put his teeth into him for that insult.  
The boy pointed up the street and into a side one branching off “There's the Sargent of Waterloo yonder”

Javert raised his eyes. The building was distinctive mainly by its second storey, and the blank board, probably once an inn-sign, which hung out on a brace perpendicular to the front wall. Otherwise, it was in a similar state to those surrounding it. Thus was likely the abode of the coercer.  
He sighed, this time not an act, and hoped fervently that the food was better than the exterior view. As much as this was a rescue mission, he was hungry.“Is there no place else?”  
“Not with a stable m'sueir, one of the goodwives might feed you for some coin.”  
He nodded to the boy and led Satan on down the street.

No boy came when he found the back yard arch, so he stabled the horse himself, making quite sure he left naught of value there. The stables smelt musty and sour, as though no creature had lived there for quite some years. On that though he stopped, and making sure to clatter about and make as much noise as he could, tacked Satan up again, and pointedly coughing over dust and wrinkling his nose, led him back out on to the street.

There was a house not far off, with a rail in front. He rapped on the door, and an ageing man opened it. Javert removed his hat, bowing politely  
“Monsieur”  
“What do you want?” The man was suspicious, scared.  
“Would you take care of my Stallion, I do not like the accommodation for him at the inn.”  
The man's face broke in to a wry smile “Aye, they're good enough for two legs, but Thenardier cares little for four-legs, he thinks the cavalry could have done more in Waterloo, you see.” He lowered his voice “There's coin in it for you if naught is missing when I return.” With a showy twist, learnt when he was in the troupe, he revealed a gold louis for a few moments, hiding it just as quickly.

The old man's eyes shone and he nodded eagerly, stepping out his front door and taking the reins from Javert. Satan tried to fight and the old man soothed him with the practised motions of an ostler. However, as trained, he only behaved when Javert placed a hand on his neck, whispering what all officers called a 'pass-code', a secret word the horse was taught, telling him to trust the handler he'd been given too. Otherwise they would kick out and bite, exactly as if someone grabbed their reins while on patrol. The stallion flicked his ears, and stopped rolling his eyes. The old man chuckled, running clearly appreciative eyes over the horse  
”One man horse, I've seen the like before many times”  
“My thanks to you, m'seuir” Javert let a small smile appear on his face, deliberately leaving it ambiguous as he moved away as to whether he was smiling in thanks or over the comment regarding Satan.

He had to force himself to assume a less commanding stride as he approached the inn, but he could not make his hand relax on the handle of his truncheon, which hung in a nondescript leather case at his side. Taking a very deep breath when he stood close to the door, but standing so he hoped none would notice such an action. Then, feeling more nervous than he felt he aught to, he pushed open the door.


	5. In the rat-nest

The inn common room seemed to, at first glance, take up much of the ground floor spapce and was itself filled with many tables and chairs. Javert could tell by them alone that this was not a respectable in, they were all mismatched, half of each held up by rough spar-work rather than being properly remade by a carpenter. Shoddy. He shook his head slightly, walking about until he found a set in a good position and which he considered strong enough not to collapse underneath him. The saddlebags dropped onto his lap as he sat down and he let his coat fall so as to coceal them, sitting in a position which encouraged other eyes to skim right over him without pause, neither too dejected, nor too cheery. His head was low, but his eyes saw all. And someone saw him.

He felt the eyes on him a moment or two after he sat down, but as they disappeared he ignored them as cursory until they kept returning. Fleeting flashes of being watched gone as quickly as they came. It made him as nervous as a single constant stare, for whoever was looking had a reason to not be noticed. Finally, with a coldness and fatality in his gaze, he lifted his head.

Javert had expected the watcher to be one of the burly woodsmen who had appropriated tables around and about, guzzling their ale away, but they were all focused on their mugs and themselves, shouting and laughing uproariously as if they were drunk. And it wasn't even the evening. His eyes drifted languidly, carefully not looking as he sought out his watcher. None of the patrons even seemed to notice as he skimmed over them, and he began to wonder if he'd been feeling things, if being out of Montreuil-sur-Mer had put his finely tuned senses over the edge into hysteria. The mayor had warned him he'd been working to hard, wearing himself thin, and now, at a crucial moment in a case, he was cracking. Glazed, he glanced over to a dusty corner of the room, more on the practise of checking everywhere than for anything else.  
Brown eyes stared back at him. Javert blinked, and rubbed his eyes, but there the sad, slightly peevish, orbs stayed. They belonged , he realised, not to an outsised cat, but to a small girl who crouched on the floor next to a bucket which was as big as she was in that position and who clutched a scrubbing brush in one hand. Her eyes were big in her sharp little face, seeming as if they didn't actually belong there. Javert looked at her, and sure enough, her eyes darted away. He watched as the scrubbing brush went back to the water and she started furiously scrubbing under an empty table, apparently intent on her work. He waited, and sure enough, her eyes flicked back to him after a short while. There was a wariness, a watchfulness in those eyes that he'd never seen before in a child with a true home, it was the look of the young gamines in Paris. The irony of what he'd just created hit him hard, he'd come here to search for a child who was probably being neglected while her mother was extorted, yet he called this dismal place a 'true home'. Idiot. He looked back to the girl, only to see her already wan face blanch further and fear flash across her eyes.   
He turned his face into to a question _What is it?_  
She was frozen, but the answer came anyway  
“Ah, Monsieur, Welcome to the Sargent at Waterloo.”  
Javeret turned, shifting his mien from perplexity to indifference of nobility and riches.


	6. The Rats themselves

The man before him set him on edge in seconds. It wasn't anything he said, simply a gut reaction to the depths of fawning in the smile, a smile that Javert saw had sharp, blade-like edges. A con-man's smile, the kind to make you love him even as he robbed you dry. Javert had seen the like, in many guises, before now. The calculation in the eyes, the way they ran over his coat, noting every mud splash and carefully darned patch, flicking him over as if he were a prized horse rather than the more correct brief glance or gawking frozen stare which should be given, depending on the class of the establishment. As an added observation, he looked like a skinny rat too.  
Javert didn't bother to acknowledge the greeting, causing an awkward silence for a moment, before the innkeeper continued “What would please you this fine day, Monsieur? Some food, we have very fine pork hung, or a beef pie? Or wine, there is a fine vintage or two in the cellar? A bed perhaps?”  
The patter was starting to slip, though only a fine ear would notice. Finally Javert grunted, dropping his head it what was certainly a surliness at the patter, and might also have been taken for exhaustion “Wine.”   
The innkeeper gave a bobbing bow and scurried off, all industriousness. Javert followed him with his eyes for a moment, then looked back towards the girl. She was gone, bucket and all, the floor left partially scrubbed in haste. His head went up as he looked around. Seconds later he dropped it, cursing himself. Now was not the time to give himself away by looking about too much. He shut his eyes briefly, they watered in the glare of the lit fire from his shadowy patch.   
The wine was delivered and he swiped away the innkeepers flutter of payment with a dark growl. The man disappeared, less persistent than he'd expected. It made him jittery, wondering if the rat had seen anything that made him suspect. On instinct, as he always did, he took a deep swallow of the wine in the mug and struggled not to gag as it slid down his throat. Coughing he slammed the cup back down, trying to splutter the bitter vinegar off his tongue as subtly as possible, still, curious glances were obvious.

“There you are you little rat.”   
The vile wine was momentarily forgotten as he watched a huge boxy woman drag the poor girl out of a nook near the chimney. There was nothing remotely feminine, much less motherly, about the creature who hauled her out, but the evidence of two other girls, both well dressed, peeping down from a small gallery told otherwise.  
The victim's squeaking returned his attention to the matter in hand. She was trembling, futilely trying to free her thin twig of a wrist from the cleaver like grip of the Inn-mistress.   
“Are these floors clean, brat?”  
The girl didn't answer, her eyes dilated with terror as she waited. Javert looked on, paralysed by surprise and uncertainty as the woman snarled and spun the child about so her back was facing her, all the while keeping a wrenching grip on the little arm. It hurt, he could tell by the glazed grimace, but a deeper fear and a resignation in her eyes stuck a knife into his chest. Still he remained unmoving, frightened that to intervene would bring worse on the girl. It had been known to happen, and these were the kind of people.  
Then he saw exactly what the beefy creature had taken down from beyond the chimney while he'd been intent on the girl, saw it rise in the air and spread, and his body lifted from the chair and dashed forward.  
The Cat'o Nine, hated weapon of Toulon, swung downwards towards the child's back.  
“No!”


	7. Wolf versus Rat

His cry didn't freeze the whip in mid air and a sharp yelp came from the girl as it made contact. But even as he flinched he realised it might have done some good, only one of the three straps fell on her back, only three spilt ends might cut her, rather than the full complement of nine. The possible reprieve did nothing to lessen his anger and he lashed out, deliberately catching the inn woman on the wrist tendon and thereby forcing her grip to slacken as he pulled the unfortunate child away behind him with one hand and drawing his night-stick with the other. It might have helped that, judging by the expression on the woman's face, she was frozen in shock at his intervention. Had no-one in this village ever questioned the child's raggedy, starved look, which he'd seen in seconds.  
“What do you mean by this Monsieur?” The innkeeper had hurried over.  
Pointedly shifting his weight to be ready to fight, he spoke through clenched teeth, his immediate rage fuelled by the leaf-like quivering that he could feel against his back leg “to prevent gross mistreatment and abuse of this child.”  
The innkeeper laughed lightly, bobbing in a condescending fashion “I appreciate your concern, Monsieur, but we are only following God's own instruction. ' Who Spareth the rod, spoileth the child' Monsieur.”  
“The rod, perhaps for a few strokes, not a Nine tail.” His rage nearly bubbled over at the end, he spat it at them.  
The woman came out of her shock then, and he felt the child's trembling increase tenfold as she took a step forward.   
“But Monsieur, I only meant to use it lightly, she had been so very sinful and we reform her to good Christian values, with kindness mostly, but occasionally we must use other measures. Trial that she is, we do adore her as our own.”.  
Javert looked at them both, keeping,his eyes inscrutable, his face cold. His way of dealing with spiders like this was to crush them at once, but he knew he had questionable jurisdiction in this region at best. He was of the Paris police, and Montfermeil fell loosely under Parisian command, but he had been explicitly assigned to Montreuil-sur-Mer. He let his free arm slip down around the girl's shoulders.  
“Then I fear for your little girls”  
The innkeeper seemed thrown by that, it was writ clearly on his face and Javert heard the girl he sheltered giggle. Then, taking advantage of the momentary lapse, he carried on “Cosette comes with me.”  
He turned on his heel, allowing Cosette to stay under his coat, effectively out of sight, if not out of mind. The patron's, which he realised he'd forgotten, stared at them both with wide eyes, looking from him to the rat, at a rate which indicated high nerves. He ignored them, pausing only to snatch his saddlebags up as he passed. The sooner they were out of there the better, before the Thenardiers pulled themselves together any better and registered more objections.

They almost made it, but as he pushed a paralysed Cosette out the door he heard the quick scampering step of feet behind them. He didn't turn around, but taking Cosette's small hand in his own moved more quickly, as it was, he didn't have to walk much faster before she was trotting to keep up, and a quick glance confirmed her eyes were darting and frightened.

He went straight to Satan, checking the tack for tampering with practised eyed and hand before he buckled on the saddlebags and threw the gentleman the promised coin. The stallion danced and shifted as the bags touched his flanks and with an uncharacteristicly sharp hand Javert checked him. Cosette had tried to back off and he realised she'd probably never known a friendly horse, besides her head barely reached above Satan's knee joint. Still there was no time for introductions, he turned, catching her at the waist and threw her up into the saddle.  
On instinct alone he saw her fingers cling onto the raised pommel and he nodded with a small smile “Don't let go of that, I'll do the rest.”  
She nodded and he looked over his shoulder to see Thénardier haring along the front of the inn to where they stood  
“Monsieur, I protest, this is kidnap at its most brazen.”  
His temper went “No, it is rescue, you have exploited this child and her mother most cruelly.” He grabbed the reins with his free hand and sprang into the deep saddle behind Cosette, glaring at Thenardier, staring him down “And you won't do it any more”.

Satan tossed his head, flicking his ears. Javert settled himself deeper in the saddle, gripping the handle of his night-stick as he took a deep breath and shouted “Sargents-du-ville, to me!”  
Everyone in the vicinity turned, mute with surprised but he heard the shout being taken up on the main street, and turned his head briefly to look for re-enforcements.  
Out the corner of his eye he saw a blur of movement and Cosette shrieked as Thenardier made a grab. Satan reared up wildly and Javert twisted, using his weight to bring the stallion down nearly on top of the swindler and the momentum to lash out with the night stick he drew in his other hand. He felt it connect, distantly hearing a yell of pain. Without waiting he finished the turn to point down the street and, setting heel to side, gave the stallion his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also has an illustration; http://chrissy-24601.tumblr.com/image/57611855106
> 
> Thank you Chrissy24601


	8. The Gallop

She clung to the leather in front of her on pure instinct, terrified. Beneath her, the hooves thudded on the road, a giddying drumbeat her heart tried to match. The world was flying by, wind whipping black hair towards her face. She shut her eyes, but it made it worse, she could feel Monsieur's hand on her leg, felt herself slipping sideways, out of the leather, downwards, downwards. She screamed.

Javert let the stallion charge down the road, making no effort to bring him back to the bridle even after they had left the village far behind. The sooner they were away, and the further they could get, the better. He was crouched forward even in the high saddle, and his chest almost brushed the back of the poor girl who clung, hunched, in front of him. When Satan leaped a ditch in the road, a ditch Javert later realised they were lucky not to fall in, the speed they were going, she wobbled violently to one side, then shrieked as she felt herself slipping. He didn't think, shoving her straight with his spare arm and bending it around her so she was prevented from falling again. Distantly he remembered the first time he'd galloped, he'd been nervous too, and that had been on a stolid old school master, when he was in control of stopping if he panicked and with side riders to come to the rescue.  
She'd never even ridden before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit short, but it seemed to fit well


	9. First kindness

Of course, not even Arabs could go on for ever. Eventually he sensed the stallion's stride starting to labour and slowed him, first to a canter, then to a relaxed trot. It was credit to the horse, Javert thought, that he didn't dare sit too deep and forcefully into the trot, or he tried to go back up to canter. This was one, it seemed, who would run himself into the ground if he was asked to. Easing him to an active walk, in the hopes that no-one would identify the stallion later as having run a long distance, he leant forward and stroked the black neck. The hair was damp under his hand, and there was white grease on the leather reins. As Satan kept walking he dismounted, slipping the reins over the sharp ears, which flicked back and forth in acknowledgement of him. The fine legs plodded on, no tremble visible. Satan's eyes, glinting brightly to the outsiders eye, claimed he could go on again at once, but Javert could see otherwise. He lowered his head to much and his step was a plod, not the sprightly dance. The horse was tired.  
He led the stallion for a mile or so, deciding that the girl's feather weight would make no difference to the cooling off and therefore leaving her in the saddle. He recalled his own first gallop again, his first riding, and knew that she would barely be able to walk anyway, her legs all wobbles and cramps. Better she stayed up there for the time being. 

The clearing was perfect, fairly large as forest clearings went, with a screen of trees separating it from the road. Javert led Satan through them, making sure the girl ducked low enough. A backward glance told him the trees showed no signs of their passing through, with the low under-brush, while causing him to trip and stumble when the brambles had taken a liking to his leather boots, effectively concealed prints of all kinds, and, he thought wryly, deterred people from looking for such marks of their passage too. He tied Satan to the lowest branch he could see, using a spare coil of rope rather than the reins, then stepped back to the saddle, reaching for the girl. She leant away trying to avoid his hands, and for her efforts came close to slipping off the other side, only saving herself by clinging to the pommel and thigh rolls for dear life.  
Javert sighed, tiredness and hunger making his temper shorten “Either you let me lift you down, or you fall. Make your choice.”  
He watched her face, saw fear warring with itself, of him and of falling, until she shifted so he could reach her. As he lifted her, she made no movement, it was more like holding a rag-doll than a person. He set her down on the earth, immediately stepping back so she had space. That at least was something he'd managed to remember from his days as a Paris gamine, to be hemmed in triggered more panic. Sure enough, her eyes lost some of their fearful look as he increased the gap between them, and the rest he could account for.  
Silence, a stalemate, before he spoke to her again “Get that off”  
instantaneously the fear was back, her pupils consuming the rest of her eyes and her hands crossing up over her body as she shook her head frantically.  
Javert felt himself growing impatient “I need to check your back, clean the cuts, and I can't do it when you're wearing filthy rags.”  
She shook her head again, eyes darting back towards the road, to the sides of the clearing. It was a movement Javert recognised, as if she was searching for somewhere to run. Then he realised how his command must have sounded, and in the same instant cursed the innkeeper to the deepest of Hells. What had he done to this child? 

He stepped around her, the movement turning into a mockery of a waltz as she edged away to keep the same distance between them, and rummaged in the nearest saddlebags. After a moment he drew out his last fresh shirt and held it up. Shaking out the creases he turned his head and mentally measured the cloth against the girl. It would do. He rolled it into a ball and threw it to her, noticing how she pressed her cheek to the fabric as if she'd never felt something quite as soft, and that shirt was rough linen  
“Here, put that on instead, then will you let me see your back”  
She nodded, still cadgey, but didn't make any move to turn around, instead giving him a pointed stare. After a moment he held his hands up in the traditional 'mea culpa' gesture and walked around to Satan's other side, then turned his back. Moments later he heard the shifting of fabric, then a small cough.  
She looked like a miniature ghost, dressed so completely in white, even her work-roughened hands invisible under the too long sleeves. He caught her eye and, waiting briefly, approached.

There was only one bad welt on her back, the other two splits leaving only red marks. Javert sighed his relief as he swabbed the worst with a kerchief splashed with wine. It was an old remedy, but it had kept his own wounds clean before now, and would do so again. And that against the sneeking suspicion that the contents his wine sack might be closer to vinegar than decent drink. , letting the shirt slip back down he turned the girl to face him “Better?”

She nodded, but he noticed her lip was bitten, the alcohol must have hurt. He clapped her lightly on the shoulder, giving a small smile which she returned. Then to his surprise, she, lifted her hands, waiting to be put back in the saddle. He masked his surprise with effort, despite her broken exterior, this one had spirit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone, I'm particularly looking to you Chrissy 24601, would do an illustration of Cosette wearing Quastvert's shirt, I'd thank you greatly


	10. Shelter

He let out a sigh of relief as the white wall and black timbering of the next inn came into sight. The girl had been swaying in the saddle for the previous mile, and, if he was honest with himself, he was also worn to the point of unravelling. He shouldn't be, he was fitter than that, but he couldn't hold the denial up for ever, even if he would eventually fob the stop off to superiors as a requirement for the others in the party. Today had taken it out of him, and he wanted only to sleep, and to eat, to the point he, famous for being exacting and accurate, was not in any way bothered as to which came first.

Satan stopped almost without command in the inn-yard, though whether it was a dignified halt, or a refusal to take another step was clearly a matter for debate. Javert noticed how the stallion, normally requiring a tight bridle hand when he dismounted, stood like a statue as he lifted Cosette down from the saddle. He reached over and gave the black neck an apologetic pat as he eased the reins down and over the ears.  
“Ah, Inspector, you have returned.” He turned his head to see the inn-keeper standing in the door which lead from the inn's stable yard to the inn itself. The old man hurried down the steps as Javert, nodded in response.  
Javert glanced at Satan, then back to the innkeeper, who, apart from one glance, was studiously ignoring the fact of Cosette's existence. “Put him in a loose-box, with a thick bed and give him the best fodder you have.”  
The innkeeper nodded, taking the reins “Of course Inspector” Satan made a half-hearted attempt to snap, laying his ears back. The man chuckled fondly, not the least frightened by the display “Come along you.”  
Javert watched the horse move as he was lead away, there was no stiffness, but he made a mental note to have the stallion trotted up before they packed in the morning. Wrapping an arm around Cosette, who had come out from where she'd hidden, behind him of all places, he led her across the yard and up the three steps into the inn.

The contrast between the one they entered and the one they'd left couldn't have been more marked if it had tried. The common room was a similar design, but the furniture was all in one piece, and it gleamed happily from so much polishing. It was also full to the brim of people. Some, as in the Sargent, were labourers in for drinks and a meal, but more wore the smartly made clothes of well-to-do travelers and merchants, talking quietly with each other over their glasses of wine. Someone lifted their head, and after a moment all chatter stopped and all eyes rested on them, particularly on his uniform, clearly visible under his open coat. He let them look, felt the heads turning as he steered Cosette to one of the few empty tables, which was, by providence, tucked in a niche close to the crackling fire. The expression on her face when he lifted her to sit on one of the wooden chairs at the table, he wouldn't have accepted any money in the world to have missed it or have it taken from his memory. She looked up at him as he hung his coat on the back of her chair, eyes still big but with, heart achingly, a deep measure of trust revealed in them.

_She's only known me for a few hours._

He couldn't fathom her strange change of heart, but could only conclude that she considered anyone who'd got her out of that rat hole as worth attaching herself too. Yet he remembered the fear in her eyes when they'd first stopped, an enigma truly. He dismissed it from his mind, patted her on the shoulder and crossed back through the weave of tables to where the Inn-keeper's wife stood behind the bar.  
“Bonsoir Inspector, what can we do for you tonight?”  
He placed both hands on the smooth wood of the bar top “Some wine, not too strong, and some of that Lamb Cassole.” He glanced over his shoulder, almost involuntarily checking on Cosette. She sat where he'd left her, staring around like a mouse in a cheese shop “And some broth, please”  
The woman's eyes had followed his and she was blinking away pain from her gaze as he looked back “I'm not sure how much she's had to eat recently” He ignored her surreptitious wiping of eyes, and in actuality it was very well-done, concealed to all but the most inquisitive eyes by the act of turning around to fetch a small bottle of the wine he had asked for.  
When she faced him again, her eyes went straight to Cosette “Poor little mite, who'd do such a thing?”  
Javert spoke gravely “Some very unscrupulous people, Madame, who care more about silver in their purses than anything else.”

Something he said must have had a deep effect, for it was madame herself who brought the food when it was ready. His stomach rumbled and in deference to it he said his grace shorter and faster than normal, before picking up his knife and spoon . He'd swallowed twice before he thought to look to Cosette. She sat quite still in her chair, looking at the bowl of broth uncertainly, then glancing up to him. She flinched when he caught her gaze, curling down in submission, and he realised bitterly, the attitude of one expecting a blow, yet she'd done precisely nothing wrong, was even awaiting his permission to start.  
“Eat up”  
She stared at him and he gestured to the bowl with his spoon “It's yours, eat it.”  
He watched her eat out of the corner of his eye. Her behaviour was an odd mixture, he'd never really seen before, she lifted the spoon with the caution of one expecting a telling off, ready to abandon it, apparently untouched, yet she also ate with the speed of one who expected to have her food taken away from her, and wanted to finish it before that happened. She was a shaken child, no doubt about that, it was too easy for her to change from girl to wraith, invisible to all eyes. Her survival strategy, hope that everyone would forget about her. at the same time she was a striking child, not in looks, she'd be no Parisian Belle unless she was a human cygnet, but there was something about her that meant the right kind of people couldn't forget her. She was unique.  
The spoon clattered into the bowl, completely spotless and he realised he'd stopped eating to watch her. Quickly, surprised she hadn't felt eyes on her, he directed his attention to his own bowl. It was as good as he remembered, even if it was cold. Still, he was forced to leave the gravy in the bowl, admitting that the change in temperature had made it relatively unpalatable for him. He pulled a face at the first solid mouthful.  
A giggle  
He felt his own lips twitch, but didn't look at her “That is why it is good to eat the food when it is hot, not leave it laying around. Fire was provided to allow us to cook our food and eat it hot, we should do that.”  
He glanced at her, seeing a very serious, adult expression on her face. Hauntingly, he realised that at her age he might too have carried such an expression, the expression of one who knew the world's harshness too young. Where was the innocence in either of their lives? Gone, gone and lost into the darkness of society's heavy hand, blurred off by the mists of time, out of reach, and yet never gilded into their memories. 

He stood up, and she copied him, failing to mask the exhaustion in her eyes, the yawn that twitched her her jaw muscle. She trooped up the stairs after him with the automatic quality of a duckling following its mother.  
“Ah, Inspector.” The Madame came hurrying up the corridor to them “We only have a room with one bed free.”  
He nodded “Set out a pallet with blankets on the floor, plenty of blankets.”  
She nodded, looking to Cosette, who stood looking lost. Then to his surprise, she spoke to the girl “I'm afraid you're too grubby to sleep here little one.”  
Cosette nodded, backing off with resignation in her eyes. Javert felt his muscles tense, they were not going through this again, they were not. If Cosette had to sleep in the stable, he'd sleep there with her, disgrace the establishment for its bias. But the woman had a gentle smile on her face as she tilted her head back the way she'd come  
“Come with me, and you can have a nice hot bath before you sleep, scrub off all that dirt.”  
He thought he probably looked just as surprised as Cosette did, nonplussed by the change of tack. Cosette hung back as the Madame offered a hand, her eyes darting to his, full of fear, but also hope. She wanted to accept the offer, but her past held her back, fear of what she'd seen in the other in. He held the gaze, speaking only to her  
“Cosette, if you need me, call... _Daj_.”  
She nodded, allowing herself to be led away with less resistance. He watched until a door slammed behind her. Just before the Madame had shut the door, she'd pointed to another door up the corridor, their room he assumed. 

The room wasn't much, the same room any patron would get at an inn. A decent, solid bed, with not much of a mattress, some pillows and blankets. As he'd asked, there was nearly treble the quantity that was normal. The innkeeper stood up from where he'd knelt at the side of the bed “Evening, Monsieur, I've dragged the pallet, out... save you the effort, you look as done in as your horse.”  
He hadn't realised it until it was pointed out, but his legs were threatening to wobble, or dump him on the floor, if he asked much more of them. He let himself sink onto the pallet, pulling his boots off and standing them by the side. Everything ached. He was a fit officer, but the stress of the day seemed to have told on him. He flopped onto his back, stretching his six foot and more frame as much as he could on the small bed raised planks. He'd just rest for a while, be awake and refreshed when Cosette returned.


	11. There is no debt to pay

He woke up with a start, flailing for his night-stick as something hit him in the face. When his mind finally caught up, he found himself sitting bold upright, staring at the weapon as it lay on the floor.   
A pillow.  
On the bed, Cosette rolled like a puppy, giggles pouring out of her, in an unchecked flood., her hair everywhere over the the pillows. He watched, and found his own lips twitching of their own accord at her mirth. With some he might have played stern, but it was impossible after seeing such childish exuberance, and comparing it to what he'd found the day before. Instead, waiting until Cosette was facing away from him, he picked up the pillow and threw it back. It missed, but she grabbed another and, with slightly better aim, threw it back at him. He let it hit him in the chest, rocking back slightly, but making sure he kept his balance, not wanting to scare her. Then he threw that one at her too. This time she caught it, with both hands, and clutched it tight with her fists, holding it in front of her face like a mask. It echoed of a game he'd played with the other boys, with his mother, when he'd been young. Like an actor, he pulled a puzzled expression onto his face.  
“Where is Cosette?”   
Her face popped up above the pillow “Here I am.”  
He allowed his expression to clear “Oh yes.” He smiled slightly, and she returned it. The freedom the girl gave him was wonderful, if strange. She trusted him, he didn't have to be on his guard at all. The little speck of laughter which had clung on through hell and high water could grow, for a short while at least. His colleagues in Toulon, in Paris, wouldn't recognise him now. Only his mother would, and his playmates, if they were still alive.  
A knock sent her under the covers.  
“Who is it?” He called over his shoulder, slightly turning his back to the bed and forming, hopefully a pseudo-protective barrier for Cosette.  
“Madame, Inspector. You asked to be woken for breakfast”  
He answered quickly “Thank you.” 

The inn was busy with departures while he waited. The landlady had kept Cosette upstairs after breakfast, muttering something about clothes. Probably best, the child could hardly travel much further with only his loaned shirt. God knows what people would think if she did. And he knew too well what it would be, not regarding her age. He paced slightly, impatient. Every moment they stayed was another moment for a rider to come in talking of kidnap and violent attack at Montfermeil, men who might arrest him, police officer that he was, and march him to a court. He was too far away for Madeleine to rescue him, and then what would happen to Cosette? Back to the inn? No, they needed to be on their way.  
There was a small, nervous cough, the kind that he associated with classy Parisian balls. He looked up, as it seemed to request. Madame stood there, a little girl at her side. The girl's chestnut hair was tied back into a practical plait, which still managed to allow curls down by her ears, and also emphasised her large, honest eyes. The dress didn't entirely suit her, in his limited perception of such things, blue would have been better than the rosy pink, but it seemed girlish enough, and well made. He couldn't understand why such a presentation was being made though, and to him.  
The girl giggled shyly, dropping her eyes. It was that, which worked his policeman's brain  
Cosette stood before him.

 _What a difference a bath and good clothes can make._ He would have gladly kicked himself for thinking that, were it possible. The words were those of the rich elite, mocking and rude, he was glad his tongue was deciding to behave, for once.  
He looked Cosette up and down once, smiling as she waited “Well... A turn would be nice.”  
She rose up on her tiptoes, skirt swirling lightly around her ankles as she spun. She looked like a dancer, something from ballet, until the bruises on her face noticed. Willing to play the game, he offered his arm with gravity. She came down the last few steps, putting her hand in his own rather than on his forearm. Javert didn't bother to correct her, leading her down the steps of the back door into the stable courtyard. Satan stood there, being the perfect model of a cavalry horse on parade, halted square, head raised slightly and ears pricked. After boosting her into the saddle, he stepped back, briefly admiring the tableau, the fine black horse, spark in his eyes, standing solid, the innocent girl perched side-saddle fashion in the deep cavalry saddle. Stunning.

Something nagged him, leaving the two in care of the grooms he ducked back inside. The landlady stood there as if she was expecting him. He held out his hand, offering the franc notes in it. She shook her head. “No"  
“Madame, the dress, I did not ask for that, it must be paid for...” He tried to stare her down, to win by mental force “I will not leave a trail of debts.”  
She matched his look “You are taking her back to her mother, Inspector?”  
He nodded, though it was only half a question.  
“I saw the marks on her back, her thinness, the bruises. You have saved her.” She stopped, clearly fighting emotion “I would like to think someone would do the same for my Eloise, were things different.” She closed his hand over the notes “From one mother to another, Inspector, no debt of any kind stands.”  
He bowed over her hand, wishing some of the so called nobles in Paris could see this woman. Where Madame Thenardier had been all brute, this lady was all grace, all honesty. She was a wonder.  
“Godspeed Inspector.”  
“May your business prosper.” _And it will, if my recommendation can do aught ___, he thought.


	12. Return

It seemed longer than two weeks before that he'd last seen Montreuil-sur-mer, but it was a pleasant sensation to count down the mile markers, both those given by officials and things like the bent tree, which served only the locals. Cosette, who had started to talk more, went silent at the sight of the town, but Javert found himself too preoccupied with controlling a stable eager stallion to pay over much attention, only half noticing the surprised stares which greeted them as they rode in.  
First call was to the stables, where Javert saw his horse unsaddled and turned loose into one of the meadows on the edge of town. The stallion had earned a few days loose romp, in his opinion, otherwise he might go box-mad, with his blood still up from the gallop. And Javert wouldn't blame him one bit for it.

Cosette at his heels, looking about partly in awe and partly in fear, he strode towards the Maire. People subtly cleared a path for them, averting curious eyes when he glared at the worst offenders. He took the brief set of outdoor steps in two deer-like bounds, then paused to wait as the girl scrambled after him. Now he was on familiar territory it was hard to remember he had a companion. She clung to his coat edge as he entered the building, shivering with what couldn't be cold.   
Deciding it was wiser to yeild to protocol, he stopped at the secretary’s desk, forgoing the mayor's old command to simply walk in if there was some form of trouble.  
“Javert”   
He turned, aware Cosette was hiding behind him as she had done at the first inn, and faced the mayor. He stood there, just outside his official office, glaring at them, at him, Javert amended. After a moment the mayor stepped to the side, pointing officiously inward. Slowly, and though he told himself it was for Cosette's benefit, he knew it was because he was in trouble, he climbed the stairs and entered the office.  
The mayor's eyes widened appreciably when he saw Cosette, and he closed the door more gently than Javert thought he might have done if she wasn't present. But there was still a fury burning in those eyes as the mayor moved from the door to behind his desk, looking like a hunting dog with his prey at bay  
“Explain yourself, Inspector...I have given you much free rein in this town, and yet you galivant off to Paris with only a post-exit letter to inform me.”  
“It was rather short notice, Monsieur.” He dropped his eyes, loosing the defiance and power which he had used for so much of this trip “And I confess that I did not go to Paris.”  
The mayor ignored him, his eyes softening as he looked to Cosette “What is your name, ma petite?”  
“Cosette”  
Javert was relieved that the girl spoke up when she answered, it proved she was something close to confident, not frightened to muteness. That, at least, was a start. But he jumped as the mayor's eyes shot back to him  
“Fantine's Cosette?”  
Fantine, that was the name he remembered hearing bandied about at the factory. He nodded once, subtly as he could.

Madeleine smiled, a great beaming smile that was so out of place for the reserved mayor that Javert was inclined to think it false “Well, that changes things.” He left the office.   
Javert turned his head to follow the movement, and heard the mayor speaking down stairs “Finishing for today... anything urgent to my house.” and then the mummer of the secretary’s assent. It was tempting to pre-empt, and appear back on the landing ready to leave, but he waited, aware the mayor, for all his goodness, did not look kindly on eavesdroppers.

Javert tried not to be bitter that as they walked through town Cosette stuck closer to the mayor than to him, but it did hurt somewhat. He'd become used to her attention, her loyalty, and he had to admit, he'd enjoyed it. Now she turned as flowers did to the sun, to Monsieur Madeleine, as all the citizens did in this down. Madeleine was light, which left him shadow only. As it had been before, it would now be again.

The mayor led them into his house with barely a word, leaving them in the parlour after a moment. Javert stood where he had been put almost a mimicry, but for his uniform, of the toy soldiers the woodworkers carved with scraps for the children. Cosette, trembling again, edged back towards him and ducked under the edge of his coat to press close against him. He reached down on instinct and placed a hand on the lump which was her back. Together, they waited. 

After what seemed like an eternity the door opened again, to reveal a young woman, her golden hair escaping out from under the work-like cap she wore. She looked at him, eyes slightly fearful. Then her eyes found Cosette, peering out from under his coat like a lost kitten.  
“Cosette?”  
The girl shrank against him, trying to hid, but Javert pressed, making her move to be more visible. The woman watched, still staring and the child   
“Cosette, my child? Is it you?”  
“I am Cosette... Maman?”  
The woman nodded, smiling, kneeling and opening her arms. Cosette stood still for a moment longer, then dashed across the distance into her mother's arms. Fantine held her close, and Cosette clutched back. Javert felt his throat close suddenly, blocked by emotion he did not truly recognise. It seemed as though he watched the scene through a glass window, that he was no longer present in the room. And yet by the same token, he did not feel he could slip away without disturbing them.  
The mayor rescued him, appearing through the door and speaking in a whisper to Fantine. The woman nodded, saying something to Cosette and leading her joyfully out of the room. The mayor shut the door behind them, leaning against it as he faced Javert.  
“You have something you wish to say to me, Inspector?”

Javert started, was he that much of an open book to this man, he who others had complained gave nothing away in his face, he who was a marble statue of justice?  
Madeleine seemed to see his confusion “I can tell by your eyes, Javert, there is something in them that you agonise over, whether to tell or not. It was you, I presume, who left the note asking Fantine to come to me, but this ” He stepped forwards, eyes searching “...It is about the girl, I think.”  
He nodded “She was not found as you see her now, Monsieur le Maire. The dress is a gift from the landlady of the Red Fox, as is the bonnet she wears. In the inn, she wore only shreds of a dress, filthy and torn.” He shivered “I advise you have your housekeeper present when she is undressed for bed tonight, for the mother's sake.”  
The mayor had gone pale “What did they do to her?  
“They, starved her, beat her, and flogged her... with a Cat o' nine.”  
He thought the other man would faint in that, any dregs of colour vanishing to leave his face a pasty grey “She's but a girl...” The mayor turned as if to look through the door, to see Cosette safe and sound in his home. 

Javert allowed a moment, then coughed lightly, drawing the man back from imagined horrors “Monsieur, I must ask for your pardon, and your protection.” He drew a breath “I offered false reasons for my departure, and no notice... I have also acted outside what might be my jurisdiction.” The mayor waited, apparently dispassionately “I caught the innkeeper’s wife in the act of flogging her, with the cat. I took it upon myself to, remove the child, with all speed. The inn-keeper took exception to that, just as I prepared to ride off, I was forced to strike him, in self-defence, for he had laid hold of both the child and my horse.”  
The mayor held up a hand and Javert stopped, sucking air into his lungs. He realised that he had been gabbling, frightened.  
“If an inquest should come, we will say that it was under my orders that you fetched the girl, that they resisted and you fought in self-defence. They shall not arrest you Javert, when you acted both morally and good-heartedly.”  
He bowed deeply, and the mayor favoured him with a small smile  
“I am proud to call you an officer of this town, Javert.”  
“Thank you, Monsieur”


End file.
